


Did you see the words ?

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Moving On, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He's dead. Technically, there's no words for that.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Iwaizumi Hajime, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Kudos: 14
Collections: Anonymous





	Did you see the words ?

_"Everyone has their weak spot. The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise."_

— Sarah Dessen, _Lock and Key_

Technically, it's called autophagy.

When a cell is starved, it starts eating - literally - parts of itself. To survive.

Think of it as you having to survive when you have nothing left. You break down little parts of yourself, just so that you can go on a little longer.

In real life, he's dead.

You can't say it out loud. Because then it would be undoubtedly real. The words, they'd make it irreversible. But you think about them, all the time. Every second you remember. You feel them, every time your hollow heart pulses blood through your body.

He's dead.

Eat your heart out. Seriously. For real. Autophagy. Sacrifice yourself for yourself. The essential part of you, it's gone. It died with him. But everyone expects you to keep moving anyways.

Remember, autophagy. The self-depreciating, stupid sacrifice.

That's you. Technically.

In real life, he would hate you right now.

You've always loved him too much.

* * *

Technically, it's called joie de vivre.

Oikawa, it's his favorite way of saying happiness.

 _Was_ his favorite way. You keep forgetting. _Past tense_.

He was always a little bit of a nerd, and you knew he loved sounding smart and using French.

And that's what he was talking about.

Joie de vivre. A delight in living.

Technically, this next part is called fucking irony.

You don't need a definition for that.

It wasn't something dramatic, like Oikawa would've wanted. He'd be pissed, really.

You were just talking to him one minute, on the phone. He was happy. He was going on and on about some new trainer he liked. You were warily jealous until he giggled. His new trainer was a woman.

You shared in his laughter. He scolded you for being so crazy. You scolded him for being so beautiful.

He was coming to your place, for dinner.

Walking across the fucking street.

And you look out the window to see him. The sun on his skin, the light in his hair.

Technically, just that was definitely called joie de vivre.

And you see him and you see the car. He's ( _was_ ) Oikawa - and even though you knew exactly what was about to happen.

Well, it couldn't.

"I love you," you forced out in a whoosh into the phone. It's not conscious, really. But he just needed to know.

You maybe knew it at the time, though you didn't want to acknowledge it.

Technically, it's definitely called denial.

They're the last words he ever heard.

You know you can't hear the screech of brakes, the crack his skull makes when it hits the pavement, but you _did._

Technically, it's called psychogalvanic. The real, electrical charge in your body from mental and emotional stimuli.

(Luckily, your therapist doesn't think you're crazy).

You rush frantically. Maybe it's silent. Maybe you're screaming, you don't know. You don't care. You reach him - what's left of him, really. Because you can sense that he's not there anymore.

You remember picking his body up, in your arms. Holding him. Blood, red and lush, it streams down from the back of his head, matting his chocolate swirl hair. You feel it slide through your fingers. Smell the copper.

"Tooru!" you scream. You remember. You scream his name over and over again.

Technically, it's called desperation.

Paramedics race. They pull you away from him. Hold you back. Oikawa's body (you remind yourself of that, now) is loaded into an ambulance.

Technically, maybe there's no words for that.

* * *

Technically, it's called brain death.

They tell you - the doctors - they say that it's the "irreversible end of all brain activity". That Oikawa isn't ( _wasn't_ ) responding to any stimuli and _blah blah blah_. Oikawa’s sister, she sobs. Oikawa’s mom, she sits with her eyes wide open, staring at a poster on the wall that says _Your Hands Can Prevent the Spread of Germs_.

The ventilator, it sighs. You watch the little pump go up and down. Breathing for him. The heart rate monitor tells you that his heart - _your_ heart - beats at a rate that's perfect.

His hands don't move when you squeeze them. _Hard_.

And then, technically, it's called organ donation. Technically, you have what's called power of attorney.

Everything, you'd said. _Everything._

The doctor's wheel Oikawa out of the room. To the OR. And it's the last time you hear it. His heart.

The last time you feel his skin. You kiss his lips. Sobbing. Your tears, they wet his skin.

The gold on his finger, you take it off gently. He was your fiancé . The love of your life.

You're twenty fucking seven years old.

They take Oikawa away from him. Forever. To open his chest and take out his heart. Cut open his abdomen. Remover his liver. His pancreas. His kidneys. And you don't want to think about it. His skin. His _eyes_.

You kiss him. The last time. And he was supposed to be a prince in his fairy tale. He was Sleeping Beauty (even though he'd always insisted he looked like Belle and you were the Beast). You kiss him. You were supposed to save him.

But he doesn't wake up.

Technically, maybe there's no words for that.

* * *

Technically, it's called paroxysm.

An outburst of violent anger. Sadness.

Think of it as your entire life ending when you're still completely alive.

He's dead.

The funeral, it's beautiful. Perfect. Exactly what he would've wanted. Three weeks before your planned wedding day.

Hanamaki hangs onto Matsukawa. His eyes are red-rimmed, the hazel standing out even more.

Oikawa’s sister, she walks to the front of the crowd. There's a picture of you and Oikawa, smiling, bold and bright on the large projector screen.

His smile.

And it's the first time you think about it. You're never going to see them again.

You don't really remember, but you freak out. You go insane.

Paroxysm.

You scream. You cry. It hurts _so badly._ Infinite pain. Everywhere.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Technically, maybe there's no words for that.

* * *

Technically, it's called semantics.

The study of meaning. You've never really been a fan.

You're twenty-nine, now. It's been two years. He's been dead for almost two-years. Sometimes, you know you're still in that day. Sure, you've fucked.

But the last time you made love was to him. To Oikawa.

You sit at the park where you first met him, on a bench across from the playground.

A few tears stream down your cheeks. But you don't care. You haven't cared about anything since that day.

You nod as a man sits down next to you quietly. His hair is black and short, his eyes almond and green. He's maybe the same age as you are. You look, you really do.

His lips curve into a small smile. "It's a beautiful day," he says quietly.

You nod once. Not really.

You see a scar along his chest. Straight, along his pectorals. His shirt, it reminds you of something Oikawa would've worn. Silk and elegant.

"My daughter loves to play on the swings. That's her," he tells you, pointing to a little girl - probably about three years old - giggling excitedly as she glides through the spring air. You notice the ring on his finger.

Honestly, you're more relieved than anything.

"I'm Akaashi," he says, turning to you and offering his hand.

"Iwaizumi," you say.

He smiles again. "Two years ago I had a heart transplant." Akaashi laughs. You can tell there are tears in his eyes. "Before, I didn't care what I looked like. But after," he shakes his head, "everyday, I felt like I always had to be dressed up."

You smile. After all, you're wearing an expensive tracksuit suit.

"They told me my donor was twenty-seven," Akaashi tells you. "That he was from Miyagi. That's all I ever knew."

And then. Your heart stops.

You turn to Akaashi quickly. "When did you have your transplant?" you ask, your voice intense.

His brows knit together. "June 20th ," he says.

And you can't breathe.

"Your heart was my fiancé's," you tell him. Your eyes are huge. "June 20 was the day he died."

Akaashi stares at you. "I'm so sorry," he tells you finally. Honestly.

You don't know what to say. You blink tears from your eyes.

Semantics.

Meaning.

"His name was Oikawa," you whisper. "Oikawa Tooru. He was incredible, he was the setter for Argentinian national team" you breathe.

Akaashi, tears are in his eyes, too.

"He got hit by a car. A drunk driver," you say. "He loved volleyball," you tell Akaashi.

Akaashi laughs, just the tiniest bit. "Do you, do you have a picture of him?" he asks you quietly.

And, of course, you do. You hand Akaashi your iPhone. Oikawa's face, his smile, lights up the screen.

"He was beautiful," Akaashi breathes.

You nod. "He was. The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

Akaashi reaches a tentative hand out. He puts it over yours.

"He was going to play in the Tokyo Olympics," you say quietly. "We were going to get married in July."

Akaashi takes your hand. He gently brings it to his chest. And. You feel it.

 _His_ heart.

Beating.

Semantics.

It's a flood. Niagra fucking falls. You sob. Your levies burst.

Akaashi brings his arms around you. Somehow, Oikawa’s holding you together. Still.

"I loved him," you weep. "Oh God, I loved him."

Akaashi, he cries, too. You feel his crying.

"Papa?" you hear.

Akaashi pulls back from your embrace. He wipes his eyes. "Yuna," he says, picking up his little girl. "This is Iwaizumi," he says.

Yuna smiles, offering her little hand. "Hi Iwa-chan," she tells you.

She has ringlets, darker than Oikawa’s were. Brown eyes. Dimples.

"Nice to meet you," you fight out, a smile against your lips.

Akaashi kisses the top of Yuna’s head. His eyes - green - they meet yours reverently.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you."

Technically, maybe there's no words for that.


End file.
